


Wild Things Are

by craple



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Making Out, Pre-Relationship, Robb is a total perv, Sansa watches too many HP, Sassy, courting, poor Jon witnesses it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of her fourth class of the day – Statistic, with substitute teacher Professor Lannister, zie was a <i>bitch</i> – the blue-haired student she verbally abused during breakfast <i>commands</i> her to date him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Things Are

**Author's Note:**

> my life is questionable, the things i write is questionable, my existence in general is questionable. unbeta'd, might as well kill me now u,u

At the end of her fourth class of the day – Statistic, with substitute teacher Professor Lannister, zie was a _bitch_ – the blue-haired student she verbally abused during breakfast _commands_ her to date him.

There is a possibility that this man, who calls himself ‘Griff’ and wears obscenely tight jeans paired with an overlarge sweater full of coffee stains, has lost his mind. Her first thought upon seeing his attire four hours sixteen minutes and forty eight seconds ago, if she recalls correctly, is that he is not a student of Capitol University. An eccentric teacher is a possibility, yes, but the department she came up with was art.

She did not expect to abuse, both verbally and _physically_ – though, in her defence, the wooden spoon was a tempting item she procured after exchanging several insults that involve her family, of sorts – the president of the most prestigious political debate club Aegon “Griff” Targaryen, also the only student in the history of Capitol University to have an IQ over 150, majoring in Politic with the most perfect finals scores _ever_ in history.

It is quite possible that, instead of feeling sorry and frightened after Hot Pie told her everything he has on the man, the urge to _murder_ him in the worst way imaginable simply gets worse. Especially with the way he is looking at her now.

Chin raised as if he is challenging her to say _no_ , a mischievous spark in his eyes that Arya can never mistake as anything else _but_ , and it is so easy, so very _easy_ to say no, the way he wants it to be. Play along until he is tired, proving him whatever it is he expects from her to be true.

But Arya is having a bad day. A bad day that seems to be getting worse every minute that passes, without her morning coffee (she spilled when Griff literally _crashed_ on top of her) and strawberry-buttered toast (stepped on by some _prick_ during their verbal fight), all she can think about is Bran’s sandwich for lunch and the hard bed she regularly sleeps on when she can’t go home and breaking someone’s nose for making her life harder, preferably Griff’s.

Which is why, she is definitely not in the right mind when she says “Yes, let’s go out on a date and hold hands and watch Titanic until one of us falls asleep, pun intended” in front of her friends plus _his_ friends, basically the entire fucking university including the staff members.

Griff looks so taken aback by her proclamation, she nearly thinks it’s worth it, before she realises tonight is the monthly ‘Pack Meeting’ – Rickon’s choice, inspired by their father’s painting masterpiece, _The Direwolf_ – with her family, and Griff is grinning so wide she wishes his face splits in half by the impossible length of it.

(He has crooked teeth, white and shining and sharp, Arya observes.)

“See you tonight then, _Darling_ ,” sing-songs Griff, bending down to press his lips against hers. The only reason she doesn’t castrate him on spot is the perfect timing of the kiss he initiates; so brief, she doesn’t think it really happens, if not for the sight of a jaw-slacked Jon at the edge of her peripheral, the sweet taste of peppermint lingering at the tip of her tongue when she licks her lips.

If today is the definitely the absolute _worst_ , then she doesn’t know what _tonight_ will be.

\--

Explaining to her parents and siblings that Robb, Sansa, and Jon will not be the only one to have a plus one at the table is the most difficult thing she ever does. ‘Awkward’ is nowhere close to it, an understatement of the fucking _century_ even, to tell your parents that your plus one is not some sort of secret boyfriend you hid in your locker for god-knows-how long, also the knowledge that said plus one is actually related to Jon’s fiancé, Dany Targaryen, is a bit hard to process.

 Jon, although he does not judge, cannot stop staring at her with this dumbfounded look on his face that tells her nothing but dumbfounded.

Rickon thinks she threatened the guy to be her plus one so mother will stop bothering her about finding the perfect match.

Bran looks at her curiously, as if she is a new specimen that has stolen his sister away to prod at.

Sansa thinks she has mastered the way of the dark magic and joined forces with Voldemort to ruin the world. Really, her new boyfriend whatshisface, should stop making her watch or read Harry Potter when they are not sucking face.

Robb is just happy that she finally finds the world of her life and left _five_ large boxes of condoms and lubricants and several handcuffs and blindfolds with instructions and a note to be careful and _please use sophisticatedly_ like, _what the ever loving fuck_ , okay. She does not need to know what her brother is doing with Theon Greyjoy behind their peaceful ignorant backs.

Though, it’s a wonder, _how_ does one use those... things in a way that is sophisticated, exactly? It needs further investigation. With the help of Google and various BDSM porn sites, using them might be a thing that can happen, once she gets a _real_ boyfriend that she truly likes instead of this handsome version of Jafar from Aladdin that Jeyne Poole swoons over every Sunday.

When it’s half an hour past dinner time and Griff is nowhere to be seen, Arya heaves a sigh of relief beside Jon, to show him that she truly does not want any of this to happen. That even if she does feel a pang of disappointment, heavy and crushing, this is better, and her parents are not supposed to look that sad over the absence of her supposed-date.

She’s not going to lie and say it doesn’t sting. But, what she’s going to do is do that thing she does every time something disappoints her: she rationalises.

She rationalises that this is better, that this way there will not be chaos on both sides, that there will be no fake-dates that ends terrible downright _bloody_ , and that there will be no distraction between Arya and her goal to finish her education at the top of her class, not because she is expected to, but because it is something she _wants_.

It doesn’t make it hurt less.

And then, just as she is planning six ways to fuck Aegon Targaryen’s life over, quite certainly will involve castration and torture and any sorts, the large oak door separating the living room and the dining room bursts open in the most dramatic way possible, and both Rodric and the poor Maester walk in, dragging a man covered in dirt and scratches and dry blood, a ruined bouquet with a dozen of, surprisingly _fresh_ black roses clutched in one hand.

Due to the poor lighting of their grand dining room, there is no way for her to make out the colour of the man’s hair. Her heart is somersaulting beneath her ribs, anxious yet excited at once, but everything crumbles when the man is brought to life and he doesn’t have a blue hair, but a mop of tangled silver curls she’d like to grip and _pull_ , under different circumstances.

But then Dany is gasping, and Jon is shaking her arm, and Arya looks down to find dark purple eyes watching her through thick lashes; cocky smirk gracing his dirt-stained, _still_ handsome face. One trembling hand rising to present the bouquet of black shiny roses in front of her face.

“I know you won’t be impressed if I were to bring you red roses, no matter how expensive,” Griff begins, licking his lips. “So I went to our lovely Cersei’s house first, stole some of her roses, and here we are.” His smile is blinding and stupid and so stupidly attractive, Arya thinks she’s going to have cardiac arrest.

“Are you impressed, _Darling_?” he says, cocky as fuck, so Arya drops to her knee. She attacks his mouth with ferocity she doesn’t think she has; bites at his lower lip until he moans and pushes her tongue between his chapped, dry lips, until Griff opens them and wrestles her tongue with his, and it’s the dirtiest kiss she’s ever been part of that her father has to clear his throat six times, Jon’s hands persistent on her shoulders, to make her stop kissing him.

Griff’s face is dazed, pleasantly surprised, she guesses. The smile he gives her is full of promises. “I’ll take that as a yes.”


End file.
